Sleet Banshee by S.J. Tilly
CHAPTER SEVENTY
MEGHAN
My pretzel is a ripped-up pile of carbs at my feet, and I know I need to clean it up, but I’m so stressed out right now that I can’t keep my fingers still. I’ve shredded my pretzel, my napkin, the paper plate the pretzel came on, and the thread hanging from the bottom of my Sleet hoodie - and the game isn’t even over yet!
“Come on, boys!” Izzy shouts next to me.
It’s the start of the third period, and we are up 3 – 2. I know every game can’t be a shutout, but I much prefer those. I just hate seeing pucks get past Sebastian. And not because it means the other team scored. I hate it because I know he beats himself up over every single one.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Katelyn chants.
Both teams are rushing down the ice towards Sebastian in one big clump of bodies and sticks. I can’t even tell who has the puck.
Without meaning to, I’m on my feet and biting my fingernails in worry.
The group of players is right in front of the goal. Someone knocks the puck out to the side and the men disperse enough for me to get a view of Sebastian.
The other team gets control of the puck again, and they descend back towards the net. I don’t know how Sebastian can look so calm when I’m over here about to pee my pants.
The movement is hard to track. The puck is passed from one player to another. Knocked out of play by Jackson, then suddenly the other team snags it. The players all shift, unwittingly creating an opening, and the puck rockets towards the goal.
I squeal, wanting to shout out a warning, but Sebastian sees it.
In a lightning-fast move, he stretches out to his right, straining across the distance. His hand darts out and deflects the puck.
The crowd goes crazy, the sound is deafening, but Sebastian’s still off balance.
He’s hunched, still stretched out across the goal, and it looks like he’s in pain.
It happens in a fraction of a second. The lean. The save. And then the player from the other team, crashing into him.
The player’s shoulder connects with the underside of Sebastian’s jaw, wrenching his helmet off.
Sebastian’s body turned with the impact so instead of falling straight back, he twists, and he goes down sideways. I watch in horror as his unprotected head connects with the goal post.
He crumples to the ice.
And I scream.
He’s not moving.
I vaguely register Jackson dropping to his knees next to Sebastian, and Zach punching the guy who ran into him.
He’s not moving.
The crowd is going crazy with cheers and boos and I can’t hear any of it over the ringing in my ears.
He’s not moving.
I think there’s a fight happening. I try to take it in, but I can’t pull my eyes off Sebastian.
He’s not moving.
A medic is kneeling down next to him. Leaning close.
He’s not moving.
The medic waves for help.
His arm moves.
And I choke on a sob.
“He’s okay. Meg, he’s okay.” Izzy grips my arm, squeezing to get my attention.
I force my lungs to unconstrict, pulling in a shaky breath.
“See? He’s getting up,” Katelyn says, using her mitten to brush away the tears that I didn’t even know were rolling down my cheeks.
I watch the medic help Sebastian into a sitting position. He’s swaying with the motion. He’s moving, but he doesn’t look good.
Katelyn and Izzy keep a hold on me as we all watch. Sebastian’s teammates have formed a circle around him, making it harder to see what’s happening.
“Come on, Sebastian. You’re okay. You’re okay.” I whisper to myself, as if I can will him better with a few muttered words.
Two players grab Sebastian under his arms and hoist him to his feet. They put Sebastian’s arms over their shoulders and skate him off the ice. Watching his back retreat doesn’t make me feel any better. His head’s hanging low and his feet look like they’re hardly touching the ice.
The crowd is clapping, glad to see their goalie up and moving, but I can’t clap. My hands are still shaking.
“Here, let’s sit back down.” Izzy’s hand is still on my arm.
“Yeah, let’s sit,” Katelyn says, guiding me back into my seat.
When my butt hits the hard plastic, my shock starts to subside, allowing worry to overflow me.
I try to stand, “I need to see him.”
Izzy puts a hand on my thigh. “We’ll go after the game.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I need to see him now.”
“Honey, they won't let you back there. They won’t even let me back there. The staff doctors will help him. We’ll see him after the game. I promise.” She squeezes my leg. “My dad will help us.”
“But…” I want to argue, but I know there’s no point. I tug on the thread of my sweatshirt, and it finally breaks. “Fuck.”
